


Got That Feeling

by Grace_Logan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 08:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15904290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_Logan/pseuds/Grace_Logan
Summary: Altair has that feeling. That feeling you get when something just isn't right with the world. Something is coming for them and though he may try to thwart it, sometimes one may only roll with the punches given.





	Got That Feeling

Something wasn’t right. Altair could feel it in his bones. Something, somewhere, was about to go horribly, horribly wrong. He stopped when he landed on the next roof and looked around.

Where were the guards? By now he’d have had to duck around towers or hit the ground running to avoid someone trying to shoot him. But looking around him there were no guards in sight. Not a single one.

He stepped to the edge of the roof and peered over, eagle vision active he scanned the crowd and saw grey, grey and more grey. No blue, no white, no gold, but most importantly, no red.

_Where were the guards?_

He stepped back from the edge and looked around, the nearest tower wasn’t very high but it would afford him enough view to see the bureau and where the guards had gotten off to. Or so he hoped.

A few roofs over he clambered up the tower and gave each direction a thorough once over. Spotting no obvious congregation, he looked again with eagle vision and almost fell from his perch in his haste to get down.

Streets away, approaching with unusual stealth, the city guards were grouped together making their way past frightened civilians and silent informants. He saw none try to warn the assassins of the imminent attack.

Thankfully, he had time. Not much, but enough to make it back.

He bolted once he hit the roof, easily jumping the distance between buildings and keeping up his momentum. Their locations would offer him little time to explain the situation at hand and thus he prayed to Allah that the assassins and Malik would take his word for it and evacuate. Malik concerned him, so want to question his every move that he would waste valuable time to escape being condescending and suspicious.

He dropped into the bureau, scaring a pair of novices newly rested on the cushions in the foyer.

“Gather your things, we are under attack.”

He stomped past them and into the den, halting a contract in its tracks. Malik glared at him for interrupting. The other assassin, a disciple, lowered his gaze in respect despite Altair’s rank.

“What novice? Can’t slip past the guards?” Malik snapped.

“We must leave, the guards are on their way here now.”

“What nonsense has-“

“Malik. We do not have time. We must leave now, before they arrive.”

The disciple was already heeding his words, he’d swept past and entered the foyer before Altair had finished snapping back at Malik. The novices were awaiting further orders, yet to feel comfortable with bodily autonomy when in the presence of a Rafiq and a Master… former.

“Say this is true, what of our records. We can’t leave them here.”

“Burn them, burn everything. We don’t have time to pack anything, we don’t have time for this conversation.”

To prove him right a thunder of footsteps crept up beside the building, much too unified and heavy for the regular masses. Yelling of the guards as they got organised outside only set in stone the truth of his words and Malik sighed. Altair vaulted the counter, taking it as permission to do as he said and began piling parchment stubs and logs books into the fire place.

“Novices, leave for Masyaf. Your missions are over. Safety and peace on your journey.” Malik said.

They returned the words and were gone, following their elder from the bureau. Malik set to helping Altair as the guards began beating at their wall. He gathered texts he knew to contain sensitive information, his chest of mission stubs and his maps. Anything that could be used to assist them could be of use to the Templars. That, he would not allow of his own work.

Altair had a hearty fire crackling away in no time at all using the stubs for kindling. He piled things on willy nilly, no concern for tidiness or the capacity of the fire place. Smoke billowed throughout the room, thick and dry.

“Malik, can you climb out yourself?”

His sardonic snort was answer enough, but truly, Altair appreciated the light sarcasm that followed the sound.

“How do you think I got in here?”

He smiled, still facing the fire as he grabbed things Malik left within reach for him.

“Skilled as you are despite loss of limb I believe it is time to leave. This will take care of itself.”

Outside they could hear the sound of the bricks cracking under the assault of the guards. The fire was large by now. Engulfing half the area behind Malik’s desk. Altair jumped back over to his side and ushered him out despite irritated protests that he could manage himself and forced him out as fast as he could. Then he leapt backwards to the lattice grate, swung himself back and snapped forward, slamming the grate shut and locking himself inside and Malik on the roof.

“Novice! What do you think you are doing!”

Altair looked up at him from the ground impassively.

“Go now Malik. I will follow.”

The smoke seeping out of the den was obscuring Altair more by the second. Looking down, Malik felt strangely panicked by the thought that this could be the last time he sees Altair. Purely because the idiot had locked himself in a building that he had _just_ set on fire and was under attack by their enemy. Their entire enemy in the near vicinity. Every city guard in Jerusalem by the noise.

“How.” He demanded, anger boiling in his heart. The smoke was wafting past Malik now, sneaking around his feet and filling the air around him, his eyes watered from the dry heat. He couldn’t see Altair anymore.

“I will. Just go.”

He sounded further away. The roaring of the fire and the guards alike covering the sound of his steps across the flagstones.

“Altair!”

Nothing.

“Altair!”

The sharp crack of the brick giving way was all that met him, followed quickly by cheers and then alarmed surprise as the smoke plumed out of the new hole. Then screams and the sharp scraping and clanging of metal on metal.

Malik moved to the edge of the building, brick warm beneath his feet from the fire within, and peered over the edge into a street hazy with smoke and littered with more bodies than Malik felt would keep his peace of mind to count.

The muddy flagstones were wet with blood. The streets filled with screams of most kinds. Pain, as Altair took them down. Terror, the civilians unused to combat and the greenies for never having seen such a massacre in their short lives and the cowards who tried to run but were met with a blade in their backs as such they deserved. Rallying to the fight, to release the jitters of facing a professional massachist.

This was Altair’s element. What he was made for. Seeking him out in the throng of dying men was easy enough. White robes, though tainted by splatter and ash, remained almost untouched from behind. He carved through the guards like it was the easiest task in the world. Born for this though he may seem, he took no pleasure in it that Malik could see. His face solemn. Even disturbed by what he had to do this day.

Unable to watch any longer, sickened himself by the gore and death and the absolute ease at which Altair passed through them, he retreated. He raced away from the massacre, for the city gates and passed them by simply, for only half the usual guards manned the entrance. He left behind the strangled gurgles and halted screams of dying men.

If Altair returned, he refused to look at him any way other than that of how he has been. He knew watching to the end would change that.

Outside the city limits, the novices waited at the base of the hill with horses on hand. The disciple reclined in the shade nearby, relaxed, unguarded. The novices handed him the reigns of one horse and the disciple saw fit to get to his feet and take the other, swinging into the saddle with grace Malik could not emulate, being far more graceful despite a missing arm. The disciple was silent.

“Rafiq, what of Altair?” One novice asked as they set off. Malik was unsure how to answer. He had all the faith in the world in Altair’s ability to not die, but on the off chance he did, or was captured, he’d left a brother in overwhelming combat with no attempt to intervene. That, and the lower ranked recruits still gushed over Altair’s skill and envied his strength. They adored him, they did not know him.

“Altair can take care of himself.” He settled on and spurred his horse so the novices had to jog to keep up and not talk.


End file.
